


Daddy Issues

by sunsetmondays



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: (I promise), Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Daddy Kink NOT Included, M/M, Pining, Porn, Slow Burn, Tags and rating to be updated as I write, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:54:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28815936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetmondays/pseuds/sunsetmondays
Summary: The people (me) wanted a Sugar Daddy AU so I'm giving the people (me) what they want. This is 100% inspired by Dream giving George $5000 to blow on Amazon."It's not love that I need right now, Sap," Dream argues back. Sapnap has known Dream long enough to notice the way he shifts forward in his chair, veins along the backs of his hands twitching as he tries to keep his fingers still. Dream would deny it but the man is full of tells.Sapnap sighs, sinking impossibly further back into the plush leather chair. "Then what do you need, Dream?""I need to get fucking laid."
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 88
Kudos: 279





	1. Chapter 1

The thought starts as a joke, really. A dumb ad hidden off to the side on a porn site when Dream is a little too tired, a little too horny, and maybe a little buttered up by a somewhat generous dram of scotch to ease the stresses of a long work week. Sure he's a man with a little not enough time and a little too much money, but he's not _that_ kind of man. He's not old and balding, looking for a pretty young thing to hang off his arm at the country club because he's never had the time to find a real wife. No, he's none of that. And yet he can't help it as his eyes linger over the simple red text and the promise of ' _relationships on your terms_ '. He glances back to the spread of pretty black-haired boys and lusty dark-eyed girls in various scenes of naked debauchery. _That_ was his plan for this pleasantly quiet Friday evening spent alone in his peaceful penthouse flat. "Just a quick look," he finally admits with a sigh, mouse hovering over the taunting red title. He closes his eyes, almost wincing as he clicks.

The site loads to an unassuming grey background with a picture of a salt-and-pepper haired man smiling with a young blonde model. It's not what he expects—he isn't sure what he expects—but he still squirms uneasily as he skims over the lines of text outlining the website's proposition. ' _High class prostitution_ ,' he thinks to himself, as he reads of 'mutually beneficial arrangements' and 'avowing traditional terms'. He rubs his eyes, exits the tab, and finishes off the rest of his whiskey. Vanilla oak and smoky warmth ease the tension in his body as the night draws to a close. Still, with the site long gone and his browsing history cleared, the thought niggles at the back of his skull. It lingers. It teases. It conspires with the untended warmth in the pit of his belly as he puts his head to his pillow and begins to dream of a pretty young thing, so spoilt, so giving and eager to _take, take, take_ without a care for the kind of emotional bullshit Dream dreads to give.

He wakes late in the morning, eyes bleary and mind spinning. He sends Sapnap a sharp, demanding text, addresses a few work emails, and fetches his credit card to fill in his details. His terms are clear enough, but personal details are left somewhat vague as he saves his profile with a click. His empty profile picture stares back at him, mocking. His fingers twitch as he considers switching to his camera and snapping a quick selfie. The shadowy reflection of his face in the glossy screen scowls at the thought. He closes the site once more, this time ninety-nine dollars committed, and goes about the rest of his day.

The day has settled comfortably into the lull of the afternoon by the time Dream's intercom buzzes aggressively: four long buzzes, a moment of pause, then a series of rapid-fire pulses that warn him to get his arse _the fuck_ over there now. Dream hauls himself up from his lest upon the couch, caught between a chuckle and a sigh. There's only one man who ever greets him so warmly.

"What the fuck do you want?" Sapnap yells into the tinny metal speaker.

"Your arse spread across my kitchen table," Dream replies. He punches in the series of keys that will let Sapnap past the towering metal gate at the front of his building and into the shopping-mall-chemical air of the express elevator that skips past the first fifty floors of his building.

The security guard at the concierge nods at Sapnap in familiar greeting. Sapnap smiles back and is met with the familiar question of "when will that sonofabitch get you your own key already?". Today he shoots back with "when the bastard knows I wouldn't use it to plunder all his expensive booze". Dream and Sapnap exchange a warm hug when Sapnap is finally let through the door of one of two apartments perched atop the sixty-fourth floor. They drift past the kitchen and settle upon the couches in a pool of sun that slips through the tinted picture windows. Dream smiles guiltily as he silently offers Sapnap a drink. Sapnap declines with a wave of his hand and leans forward, eyes locked on Dream.

"Explain," he demands to Dream who only shrugs. "You never want my advice." The accusation is clear but not unfriendly. It's underpinned by years of friendship and ' _what's got you so caught up now that the first thing you do when you wake up is text me to get my arse over here asap you fucker because you really, really need my help_ '.

"What, I can't just be missing my good old buddy Nicky-wicky?" Dreams eyes sparkle, fae-like in their wickedness.

"The only think you'll be missing is the feeling of my foot up your ass, Clayey-wayey. Now stop stalling before I really have to start kicking answers out of you," Sapnap says.

Dream raises his hands in defeat. He knows from experience that Sapnap's idle threats are not to be trifled with. He swipes his laptop from the coffee table, coaxes it from its state of sleep, and starts loading up that god-forsaken site. The corners of his lips turn up timidly after the page loads and he turns the device to show Sapnap the screen. "I want to be a sugar daddy."

"No, really. Tell me what's actually up," Sapnap says, eyes sliding down to focus on the laptop screen. Dream flashes him a toothy grin. "No... Really Dream, no," he continues. "Just because you _can_ do something, doesn't mean that you should."

"Why not? It's not like I can't afford it. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't."

"I-" Sapnap rubs the base of his hand against his forehead. There are likely a thousand reasons why this is an absolutely terrible idea and yet now is the time that his brain kindly decides to supply none. He watches Dream, scrutinizes him. His face is plastered with a cheeky, but somewhat hesitant grin. Sapnap challenges that grin with a scowl—a game of chicken to see who falters first. Sapnap eventually throws his hands up and himself back in the chair with a growl of a sigh. He huffs, eyes scanning over the rows of profile pictures laid across the laptop screen. Dream has a type; there was no doubt about it. He then chews upon a few silent words before spitting out his conclusion: "I know what you're like, Dream, and money won't buy you love," he warns.

"It's not love that I need right now, Sap," Dream argues back. Sapnap has known Dream long enough to notice the way he shifts forward in his chair, veins along the backs of his hands twitching as he tries to keep his fingers still. Dream would deny it but the man is full of tells.

Sapnap sighs, sinking impossibly further back into the plush leather chair. "Then what do you need, Dream?"

"I need to get fucking laid."

"What, am I not pretty enough for you?" says Sapnap with a laugh. He twirls a finger through his hair and looks up through his lashes in the most dramatically coquettish look he can pull off. Dream settles back into his own chair, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips.

"Simp."

Despite Sapnap's numerous loud objections, he settles in to help Dream touch up his profile like the good friend he is, hiding his wince at just how much money Dream is putting on the table for this potential suitor. They settle into a comfortable round of bickering over the details as the sun begins to set the room awash with vibrant late-afternoon hues. They debate the pros and cons of live-in versus paying for a flat, Uni students over working adults, and handsome boys or pretty girls.

("Better for a threesome."

"You're disgusting, Sap."

"Says the one dishing out a small fortune for a fuck buddy."

"No, I'm not letting you make it a threesome."

"Then you could at least pay _me_ to suck your dick, Dreamy. You know I'd do it.")

Eventually, they add the final touches to Dream's profile. Dream mutters a noncommittal response about 'later' when Sapnap points out his still missing profile picture. Sapnap goes to raise an eyebrow, his expression instead coming across as a briefly crazed wide-eyed stare as he lacks such a talent as only raising a single brow. Dream wheezes at the response, throwing his head back and gripping the couch for support. Sapnap throws him a fond look before reeling the moment back in. "What next?" he asks. The question ends with Sapnap hunched over a laptop as Dream lazes about, scrolling through various pictures of attractive people and the short bios below them. He idly lists out his kinks to Sapnap, as though his friend isn't already alarmingly intimate with those details. Sapnap takes these, among other minute details, and transforms them into lines of text vaguely resembling legalese. These come to form the draft of terms and conditions Dream's future sugar baby shall have to agree upon.

"This isn't even legally binding," Sapnap mutters. He sips from the drink Dream had finally coaxed him into accepting and sloppily mashes at the backspace key a few times before finishing off another line.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," says Dream, "but I read on a forum that it was a good idea to have one anyway."

"Ah yes, legal advice from an online forum instead of, you know, an actual lawyer," says Sapnap, pointing a thumb at his own chest.

"It's not for the courts anyway, you dummy. It's for settling arguments and shit." The site had promised ' _relationships on your terms_ ' and this document would be key to keeping the relationship in check and on his terms. He had Sapnap add a specific clause right at the beginning to well and truly make sure of that.

"Whatever." Sapnap waves off the topic and shuffles over to Dream so he can get a better look at the profiles Dream is shuffling through. "Have you even decided which of these poor people you are going to subject to your ghastly personality for the next six months?"

Dream gives his head a slight shake and a stray wisp of hair falls over his eyes. "Let me have a wank over it and I'll get back to you in the morning," he answers, but as he says this, his eyes lock on a single profile in the corner of his screen: dark hair, dark eyes, and a wide smile gleaming. There is no racing heart or hitching breath. Just a quiet pause and a settled exhale filled with a sharp sense of _knowing_.

~ ~ ~

George taps listlessly at the keys in front of him, slouched back in his chair and clicking haphazardly between tabs upon his screen. The ramifications of his decision swirl aimlessly through his head as he himself aimlessly searches for purpose to fill the last of his waking hours. A collection of university acceptance offers sit open among his emails. A collection of fee lists lay spread across set-aside tabs. Figures from his bank account stand red and muddied among rows of careful calculations in an excel sheet from a few days before. He's still not sure if he's made the right decision. Comments of ' _it's not so bad_ ' and ' _a lot of people do it, it's practically normal_ ' remain earmarked in his mind but they do little to ease the roiling sense of unease that he's carried since publishing his shame on that demure grey website.

' _A sugar baby_ ,' he thinks to himself. The thought settles in his mouth and sticks to the back of his teeth. He _wants_ to get through Uni. He _doesn't_ want the forty-hour work week piled upon just as many hours of lectures and homework. He's seen how that kind of stress breaks people. He's seen how they try, and they try until one by one they snap, withdrawing from friends, withdrawing from classes, watching quietly as their dreams swirl down the drown. He thinks he's more afraid of that than the possessive touch of lonely middle-aged men, or the cold thought of the way they'd bargain his body against a price. That's what he thinks of when he sits waiting for a message to come in: an offer from a patron willing to fund his degree for a sinful exchange rate.

His friends tell him he's pretty enough for the job, but he still sits, body loose but stomach tense, scraping together imagined glimpses of what creatures would be left scraping him up from the bottom of the barrel. He sinks further into his desk chair, pulling his knees up to his chest. He opens Spotify, skips through a few songs without playing them, closes Spotify and waits.

The white text in the corner of his screen flashes just past two in the morning when a red circle flashes atop his row of tabs: finally, a message.

He clicks over hurriedly.

A message, cocksure in its brevity, sits under an address.

_Lunch, 1pm today. Y/N?_

It's far from the idle 'hey' or cheesy pickup line he expects. He clicks up on the default avatar masquerading for a profile picture. A cold feeling settles in his stomach alongside the suspicion that this is how he is going to die, or worse... Yet the words in this mystery-man's bio feel real enough and the offer is perfectly unreal.

"Seeking to pay all tuition and accommodation fees alongside a weekly living allowance in exchange for polite company," he reads aloud. He snorts as he trips over the next line, "whereby polite company is clearly a euphemism for a willingness to get railed regularly and on demand." He skims through the rest of the profile. The details are informative but impersonal, and more importantly lacking in any discernible red flags. Especially when he ignores the lack of age, pictures, or plausible real names. Especially, especially when he ignores all that.

It's a risk, very much a terribly terrifying risk that would require at least three friends to know where exactly he's going and when exactly he'll be texting them to say he's home, but this man's off-beat approach has piqued his interest and George doesn't know how to quell the curiosity that begins to froth amongst his turbulent apprehensions. He rocks back and forth in his chair, chews upon his thumbnail, even throws in a spin for good measure. Then, hands threatening to shake, he clicks back to the message window and types in a single 'y'. His middle finger hovers too long over the enter key until finally, with the aid of closed eyes and a deep breath, he sends his response.

A thumbs up appears beneath almost immediately. He swallows.

With an alarm set he drags himself to bed, wondering how on earth he's ever going to be able to sleep. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning he slips comfortably into the world of dreams, and when he dreams, he dreams of being railed regularly and on demand.

~ ~ ~


	2. Chapter 2

George sits waiting in the corner of a swanky downtown restaurant. Shadows cascade over the light cast by intricate crystal lamps. The room almost feels as though it's swamped with fog. He'd arrived ten minutes before one, underslept and underdressed. No further instructions had been sent his way since their brief early-morning parley, but he had been greeted by the waitstaff with an eerie sense of recognition. "George," one had interrupted as he had loitered like a lost spirit in the lobby. He had then been led to his table at the back without further explanation and left to wait.

His eyes travel half-glazed over the menu in front of him. He picks at the edge of the folder's crisp laminate, careful to avoid eye contact with any of the well-dressed men and women dotted throughout the room. A glass of fresh ice-water stands untouched at the head of his plate. His throat feels scratchy and dry. _Dream_ , the profile had been titled with. No name, no age; a moniker to conceal the face of the fate George is preparing to damn himself to. Droopy skin, wrinkled eyes, a potbelly fed from a life of abundance and ease. Would he even be able to go through with this? Make lo- no; give up his body to a man he neither cares for nor even cares to look at. He scratches at a place where the laminate splits. The three-figure prices ordered on the menu below fill his gut with a volatile mix of unease and resolution. George feels he's going to be sick. The cost of a single meal here could feed him for a week.

He dares to snatch a glimpse of the time from his overturned phone: two minutes past the hour and no new messages. The thought of bolting gathers tinder in his head. If he were quick, maybe...

A rugged voice clears behind him. George's fingers slip from the menu, now cognizant to the warmth of a body standing dangerously close to his back. _Like an animal, trapped_. His head whips around and he is frozen into silence.

The man looms over him, a lanky shadow accentuated by the muted lights. "George," he says. His tone is curt, yet the rumble of his voice is filled by an intrinsic warmth that bubbles with the sound.

George swallows, takes him in. He's young. He's _young_. Soft olive-green eyes, hair disordered just enough to appear unintentional, and a speckling of freckles across the bridge of his nose that George dares to describe as cute. He's not quite an Attitude Magazine centrefold spread, but the look the man gives him is disarming: a crook to the corner of his lips and a glint in his eyes that leaves George feeling shackled to his seat. The chains press down upon his earlier worries, cutting away the imaginings of greasy old men, slimy in manners and sickly in skin. This man: he seems normal enough, looks normal enough, but George still feels a tightness in his ribs as he holds the man's gaze. "Hi-" he finally exhales, then there's the barest brush of fingers along his back as the man moves to take his seat. "I'm George," he stutters out.

"I know," says the man. "You can call me Dream." Dream pulls off his suit jacket and tugs the sleeves of his white shirt up his forearms. His shirt-collar sits loose and open, tie missing, and the first two buttons left undone. For an office worker his skin carries a surprising amount of colour and the tendons along the backs of his hands flex and pop with the whisper of something physical.

"Dream," says George, carefully feeling out the shape of the word, "that can't be your real name, can it?"

"No, it's not," he says. The response is left hanging dense in the air—not an invitation but a warning.

The air stills between them as they size the other up. George chews into his lip, shuffling through the deck of questions he has ready at hand. Dream picks up the wine menu and starts flipping through the pages with a monotone hum. George gathers words at the ready but is halted by the pointed drum of fingers atop the table. "Would you like something to drink?" Dream asks.

"Water is fine." George pulls his untouched glass of water towards his chest and takes a tepid sip.

"Are you sure?" Dream gives the slightest tilt of his head, sending a stray lock of hair dancing over his forehead. He automatically smooths it back into place. George hums his assuredness. Dream flags down a waiter and requests a bottle, nonetheless.

The moment leaves George feeling no less constrained than before. This stranger, this man- Dream speaks like a politician. His timbre is the warmth of an anglerfish's luminous lure, disarming and bright, but like a sixth sense, George's heart falters, fearful of the sawtooth jaws hidden in the darkness. Yet not trusting of his fears, George feels himself pulled forward. The light is neither harsh nor unkind; it couldn't hurt to just reach out and touch.

They fall back into silence, watching, waiting. The wine comes. Dream pours George a glass. George sips hesitantly, tongue curling at the tart, dry taste. ' _I don't know you_ ,' he thinks. "I don't know if I want this," is what he says.

Dream nods and reaches down to pull a crisp file of papers out from the bag at his feet. He places them face up on the table. "I don't know what you want but this is what I'm offering," he says. Any outsider looking in would see two men entering the austere game of a business deal. In an instant they'd discern who holds all the cards and maybe even look on with pity for the dark-haired man splashing out of his depth, the small fish swimming with the shark.

George picks up the papers with carefully steadied hands. _Terms of Relationship_ is printed in large serif text at the top. After a brief introduction paragraph, the document begins to outline the basic offering from Dream's profile. His eyes stutter over the listed five-hundred-dollar amount for his weekly living allowance. This was _in addition_ to a student flat on campus and the entirety of his university fees. "This is a lot to offer," he says, almost to himself.

Dream interlocks his fingers and rests his chin upon his hands. "There's even more to give if I'm feeling... satisfied."

He continues reading, breezing over a sexual health clause, and stopping at the next: sexual but not romantic exclusivity. His body shall be Dream's and Dream's alone but the rest of his life his own. The thought should be relieving. He doesn't explore it any further than that. He scans through the rest of the document and places the heavy sheets back upon the table. "So, one weeknight a week and three weekends a month?" he clarifies.

"You don't have to come to a decision right now but yes, that's what I'm asking for." Despite being taller, Dream looks up at him as he says this. The man's expression is too unfamiliar to read but George can still feel the subtle dynamic shift. The cards have been laid out and it's his turn to hold them or fold them.

"I think," he begins, "I think I can live with this." George takes another sip of his wine. It loosens his thoughts and readies his tongue.

"But do you know?" says Dream. "I want you to take this home and think about it. Make any changes you want to the document and send a copy back to me. Then, and only then, if you want to sign it, we'll do it in person."

George nods, swallowing back any rash decisions he may dare to make.

Although the air remains terse, the moment is pushed aside. They're left with a sharp but not painfully uncomfortable unfamiliarity. They sit as two strangers often do, unsure of how or when to break the ice. There is a brief respite in the ordering of their meals. George falters at the selection and the price. There's a little too much French woven among the dishes for him to know what to look for and the weight of just how much he'd 'owe' the man for the meal alone presses upon his appetite. Undecided and still protesting, Dream orders something for him. The man's insistence encroaches like a warm front, turning heady and thick where it rolls into George's uncertainty.

As they wait for their meals they slip into a play of tepid small talk.

("I've heard there's going to be a big storm next week."

"Hopefully it isn't too bad. I'd be lost if the power goes out again."

"Me too, I never know what to do when the internet is out. Cut everything off and I tend to just mope about in bed.")

Lunch is served and George picks cautiously at the artful stack atop his plate. It's not bad but the flavours meld and spark with an unfamiliarity that leaves him slowly navigating the dish. His wine glass is near empty by the time he finishes. He dabs at his mouth with his napkin and he toys with it in his hands, not quite sure where to place it down. After swallowing his last bite, Dream offers him a soft smile. Although George had been cautious to keep his eyes centred on his meal, his surroundings, anything unoffending he could find, he'd dared the occasional glance to find Dream watching him. The man seems to take in, infer, and calculate. The attention leaves George chewing upon the inside of his cheek, feeling a curse of warmth blooming along his neck.

"Put it on my tab," says Dream as a waitress comes to clear their plates. George wonders how one even gets a tab outside of a dingy Hollywood bar. Then just as George has settled back into the glow of the lights and the warm murmur of surrounding conversations, Dream pushes his chair back, their meeting coming to a close. "You know," he says, almost offhandedly, "you have really nice eyes." George feels the warmth along his neck creep traitorously to his cheeks. He brushes his too-short-to-actually-be-in-the-way fringe out of his eyes, not quite sure why

"Thanks?" he manages to squeeze out, pitch rising with the constriction in his throat.

"Do you," Dream begins, followed by a hesitation unwont to his usual demeanour, "want to come back to my place for a bit of dessert, maybe a bit of try before you buy?" His lips twitch devilishly at the last question.

George eyes him up and down, fingers scraping along the edges of the agreement placed next to him upon the table. If he chews the inside of his cheek any more his teeth might threaten to cut. He feels the warmth in his neck, in his pulse, in the aftertaste of wine. Indecision prickles his skin, sending the hairs along the nape of his neck on edge. He scoots his own chair backwards, dusts off his snug-fitting black jeans, and stands. "Thank you for the meal but I'd like to think this over first," he says.

Something cautious flickers in Dream's eyes. "Fair enough," he replies.

The deal hangs open, unfinished. The pair part ways, pulling their cards close to their chests. George's play waits undecided. The afternoon opens with an unexpected burn.

The sun beats hot upon George's back throughout his journey home. His thoughts twist together, weaving and tangling, trying to form certainty out of the unsigned agreement that he carries heavy in his hands. The small talk that they had wandered through over the past two hours had been opaque and shallow. What he'd learnt about the man over the course of their meal had been nothing but crumbs snatched from unsaid words and carefully examined expressions. His thoughts linger upon Dream's hands—the way they fiddled, tapped, and flexed—always in motion. When they stopped is where George knew to listen closely for words held back or untruths turning sour upon lips. Even still, the lines of tendons along the backs of his hand twitched and tensed, long slender fingers curling against discreetly abated motion. He'd only been watching to admire their form, but George had learnt quickly.

When he arrives at his flat, standing disordered by the daily lives of his three roommates, he slouches upon the couch and pages open the relationship agreement. His eyes sift through the words, trying to bring sense to his muddled brain. He blinks slowly, moments of darkness met with flashes of Dream's lanky frame and the springtime warmth of his voice. He wonders about the body hidden behind the white of his dress-shirt. The lines of his forearms had hinted at strength, but they rest lay undiscovered, leaving George to fill in the blank planes of his chest, the edges of his hips, and the heat of the thighs hidden below. He bites his lip hard enough to feel the sear of incisors against skin and turns his cheek to the unseen image. He throws the papers to the coffee table with a groan and stalks away to the respite of a cool shower.

Hours pass and the agreement remains undisturbed on the table. Eventually George's roommates come to flit in and out of existence. He trades passing hellos with them in the kitchen, shares a joke and a comment on the day. One of them notices the crisp white papers, his eyebrows twitching up in surprise at the bold text he reads. "Is this about your overdue rent," he asks, folding his arms across his chest.

George answers with a shrug, "I suppose so."

"Are you going to sign it?"

"No," he says far more decisively than he feels.

"You'd be a muffin head to turn down that kind of money."

"I know," he sighs, "but I still feel like a victim, like an innocent man pleading guilty upon offer of a reduced sentence."

His roommate pats him on the back in exodus of the kitchen. "Whatever you do, I'm sure you'll end up doing the best thing for you."

"But will I?" George asks. His roommate offers him one last smile before disappearing around the corner. George rests his palms and bodyweight upon the kitchen counter, taking in the dingy room with its mismatched furniture and it's nineteen-fifties communist-red stove. He holds no disdain for this place, uneven laminate floor and all. His roommates are kind—help him out far too much with his rent—and there's a nostalgic warmth buried within the walls. But—and it's the _but_ that holds him fast to the counter as he considers the offer left waiting in the loungeroom—he's spent too long leeching off the kindness of these people, just getting buy with his regular government cheques and he wants to make something of his life too. University, a nine-to-five office career, a house and maybe even a family. He wants, wants, _wants_.

He collects his phone and the agreement from the loungeroom on his way to his bedroom. He orders the pages nearly on the desk, gives them a final onceover before messaging across his decision.

_I accept your terms under one condition._

~ ~ ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think that one condition is?  
> If you're interested in screaming with me over fandom stuff, my tumblr can be found [here](https://unofficial-cactus.tumblr.com/). I love to chat with you guys and my ask-box is always open, especially for AU and oneshot ideas.
> 
> Also, only a small percentage of people that read my fics actually kudos and comment, so if you end up enjoying this fic, consider letting me know. It’s free, and you can always change your mind. :D


	3. Chapter 3

Dream lounges sprawled across his mattress as the hot Floridan sun peeks below the half-shut blinds of his bedroom window. Something plays muted on the glass LED screen hanging from the wall. Dream stares distantly at the phone in his hands. ' _You don't have to come to a decision right now_ ,' he had said. Yet since clambering through his front door and falling across his bed he's done little but watch and wait.

George's tiny profile picture looks back at him with bright eyes and a wide toothy smile. Their conversation had been cordial enough, demurred by the strange formality of the contract laid between them. And that's what it was—what it is—a formal contract between two adults looking to exchange sex and money, and nothing more. What else was he to expect but the to-the-point impersonality of a business meeting. And George with his pretty little freckles (obscured by a shitty phone camera) and well-shaped jaw could still very well say no to this as any potential business partner always could. Yet looking at the picture and overlaying it with today's half-lit memories, Dream feels an unfolding sense of want; the kind built on bare touches of skin under lamplight and flashes of spit-slick lips trailing down, down, _down_.

He sighs, rolling onto his back and tossing his phone and contraband thoughts to the side. George could still say no to this. It doesn't matter if George says no to this. There are plenty of other pretty boys and sultry girls looking for an offer just like his. It doesn't matter if Dream's still thinking of the way George's soft pink lips were worried by his teeth when posed with a particularly vexing question, or the way his neck flushed at the insinuation of anything salacious. It doesn't matter if Dream saw a green braided leather bracelet in a store window on the way home and knew it would match perfectly against George's pale skin. None of it matters. He needs to get fucking laid.

Dream eyes the small velvet box tossed haphazardly upon his nightstand and resolves himself into tending to a few of his more pressing work emails. The rest of the day crawls by in a lull of bright white screens and blurred digital text marred by the itch-like sense of need he's yet to have escaped. As the afternoon heat settles into evening cool, clouds begin to roll in across the horizon. Dream's phone lays purposefully ignored in his bedroom, only disturbed by a furtive glance at his messages sneaked in when his self-control begins to unravel.

It's just past seven at night when he closes out of his work and sees the notification flash across his phone:

_I accept your terms under one condition._

Somewhere far outside cool rain begins to drizzle, lifting steam from the asphalt and lacing the air with fresh petrichor.

Dream picks up his phone and drums a twitchy pattern along the edge of its case. He sucks in a tentative breath, waiting for clarification. A minute flickers by in the corner or his vision, followed too soon by another. A heavy feeling leaks from his chest to his gut. He finds himself drifting through the halls of his flat, aimless in destination. Ten minutes pass with no further word. His pulse flutters along his neck and thuds quavers in his ears. Another breath and he wrangles his quiet turmoil into controlled intent.

_My place tomorrow night at eight._

He sends his demand and hastily follows it with his address. If he won't get an explanation now then he'll get it tomorrow. _He_ sent the first message, _he_ knows what he's looking for, _he_ will get what he wants.

He finds himself returned to his bedroom where he throws his phone aside once more. His pants are kicked away, bathing his legs in dusky summer twilight. The patter of rain beats against his bedroom window. It whispers threats of longing, speaks in hushed tones of ' _what if'_. Dream reaches blindly for his headphones and drowns his dubiety in the furtive heat of lotion-slick hands against skin and carefully curated want.

~ ~ ~

"No kissing," George states. His dark eyes narrow in wait of a reaction.

" _What?_ " Dream sputters across the sleek coffee table that separates him and George. Despite the cool of the AC against his skin, Dream feels a prickle of heat along the back of his neck--the warning sting of ants as he steps too close to the nest. Sapnap sits awkwardly quiet beside him, hands folded over his lap and eyes focused anywhere but on the two other men in the room.

"I agree to your terms," George repeats, "but only if you're not allowed to kiss me."

Dream's focus immediately flicks to the soft draw of George's lips, smeared with the matte gloss of what could be strawberry Chapstick. The corner of his lip drags between incisors. Maybe it's cherry Chapstick? Or something unflavoured? If he licked at George's lips would he taste the remnants of a fruity drink, or would it be bitter coffee that he would taste?

Dream blinks blankly, any witty retorts driven out by the rush of a need to lick and taste and suck.

"Is that alright with you?" George asks.

Dream digs his fingers into the sides of his thighs. "Why not, though?" he says. "I mean, why kissing specifically? It's not like a little of my spit is gonna be the worst thing to end up in your mouth."

George visibly mulls over Dream's question, a hint of pink blooming along the ridges of his cheeks. "I uh- This is just about the sex, right? Kissing is a bit too intimate for 'just sex', you know."

"I actually don't know. I really can't see how that's any more intimate than sticking _my_ cock several inches up _your_ ass." He hears Sapnap force a choked laugh into a cough beside him. Dream shifts his legs apart and leans forward. Leather crackles in protest beneath him. George's chest rises with a careful intake of breath. Dream is pervasively aware of the way the man sucks in his bottom lip, can see thoughts being spun into careful sentences in the murky depths of his eyes. He's thinking, hard.

George's frustration blooms in the way his teeth bite done, calling blood to darken his lip in an even redder flush. "It just is, alright," he declares. "It's— If we're keeping this and our private lives separate then this is just easier for me, okay. Are you willing to accept my terms or not?"

This isn't the way it's supposed to go: George lays down a condition—something easy like a car or a credit card or whatever shiny thing keeps pretty boys content. Dream happily agrees, maybe bargains in some kinks if he's feeling cheeky. The rest goes down in history. But kissing... Kissing's not that big of a deal, right? George is right; it's just about the sex. Kissing absolutely doesn't have to be a part of that. There are plenty of other uses for wet tongues and sensitive lips—

"Just no mouth on mouth kissing then, right?" Dream asks. His tone is casual but something deliberate underlines the scaffold of his words. George takes a brief moment to digest the question before humming his agreement. His body is tucked up catlike in the corner of his seat with his hands hooked over one of his knees as he pulls it towards his chest.

Dream lets out a silent sigh before clapping his hands together with a sense of finality. "Then ladies and gentlemen we have a deal."

They organise the papers, sign the agreement with Sapnap as witness, and get to discussing the subsequent details of the arrangement. Dream is adding his phone number into George's phone when George excuses himself to the bathroom. Sapnap had taken the liberty of bringing out some fruity white wine for the occasion and the air is filled with the lightness of its bubbles.

"No kissing," Dream repeats, George now well out of earshot of the room.

"You're still gonna get laid, Romeo," Sapnap fires back. His smile is warm but his words are tired. Outside the picture window the city lights have begun to blink into darkness, leaving only the spindly rises of office blocks and thick veins of late-night traffic to light the way to the harbour.

"I know, I know, but like-"

"But what?"

Dream distracts his hands by absently flipping through the photo gallery on George's phone. "You know how I am."

"Yeah. All touchy-feely and a dumbass hopeless romantic. I did warn you."

He spots a particularly interesting photo in the corner of his eye: George stretched across a bed of pale white sand, squinting as he smiles up at the camera. The hem of his t-shirt has ridden up, exposing the sharp lines of his hip. The picture is innocent enough, but something about that smile pulls at the corners of Dream's mouth. It lifts them in the same way airy champagne bubbles pull carbon to float upon surface. He discretely sends himself a copy before locking George's phone with a final click. "That's not how I'm like— I'm not _that_ bad," he whines.

Sapnap snorts. "Is that so?" His eyes crinkle in amusement and Dream scowls back.

"It's about the foreplay," he says. His fingers now trace idle patterns along the rim of his wine glass.

"You could have always said no. You know you didn't have to agree to it."

"Get out of here with your sense and logic." There's a beat as he tips his head back to stare up the ceiling. An imperfect line in the paintwork stares back at him mockingly. "I know," he finally relents with a sigh. "I know," he quietly repeats to himself. Sapnap studies him through the warped yellow of his drink. Whatever further thoughts stir within the man's head lay unspoken, protected by the thin veneer of glass between them. Like many other ill-witted times in their friendship, Dream pretends not to see those secrets just beneath the surface.

The pair settle into the comfortable silence of lifelong friends, broken only by the click of shoes against tiles as George returns from the bathroom. A few stray drops of water shine atop his head where unruly hairs had been patted back into place. He hesitates at the doorway like a spirit unsure of his ability to cross the boundary between worlds. The high life beckons with its security guard at the front gate—the lush leather finishes, the untarnished picture windows, and the glossy relief of money doesn't matter—and yet George still hesitates.

Dream turns to look at him and beckons him in with a tilt of his head. "What are you waiting for?"

~ ~ ~

The night falters into Sapnap and Dream's wine-drunk chatter—a bustle of coded conversations laced in in-jokes and memories that George can only watch from the sidelines. He's a paperweight, an ornament in the room unyielding even to Sapnap's gentle prodding. The signed papers sit glaringly white between them, and the ramifications of his ink-smeared name press heavy against George's chest. Dream's fingerprints remain smeared across the screen of his phone, the lock screen hiding a photo George knows he didn't leave open. He's laid down his cards to try and protect the one thing most important to him, but that small freedom—that small triumph—doesn't leave him feeling any less possessed. Yet there was no gun to his chest as he signed those papers, he reminds himself. This is consensual. He has power. He can always say no. Can he?

He exhales into the palm of his hand and stifles the yawn that follows. Dream looks to George before sending Sapnap a pointed expression. George blinks blurrily into formless space as Sapnap acts out his own yawn before excusing himself for the night. George mumbles a farewell and Dream leads Sapnap away to the door. He sinks into his chair and ponders the possibility of sleep. Would Dream let him leave now that Sapnap has left them and the ink on the agreement has dried? Apartments had been discussed and the process of his university enrolment begun, but there is little more they can achieve tonight and midnight threatens upon the lines of the minimalist wall clock hanging by the doorway.

Or maybe Dream has plans to fuck—to consummate this arrangement in sweat and skin. His shoulders tense at the thought.

He nearly yelps when warm hands land upon his shoulders. Thumbs smooth away the jar of his muscles and fingertips threaten to dip below the collar of his shirt. "George," says Dream. The unfinished question is as soft as the stroke of fingers against skin, lain in stark contrast to the force of palms pressed against his shoulders.

George is stilled like a wild animal. His hum of acknowledgement is barely audible above the thud of his pulse.

Dream's hands still for a moment before his fingertips begin tapping out an idle pattern. "Yeah?" George eventually prompts. The staccato pattern trips over a beat. He feels the rise of Dream's breath in the weight of his palms.

A pregnant pause is counted out by the soft _tick tick_ of the wall clock. George feels Dream's shaky exhale before his cards are finally laid across the table. "What now?" he asks.

George sinks under the weight of the question, the power that's been placed in his hands. His eyes flick to the clock where the early morning hour is shadowed by Dream's reflection in the glass. He traces the bob of Dream's throat as he swallows, sees the shift of his brow as he waits for George's response. The heat of his hands begins to burn upon George's shoulders. Tightness squeezes at his gut. A villainous thought flashes through his conscience, ' _Five hundred dollars and I'll stay the night._ ' It leaves him breathless, as though he's waltzed to the precipice of a cliff and has just stared down into the abyss far below. _No_. He prepares a polite excuse to take his leave, but as he opens his mouth to speak, the words tumble forward without his permission.

"Five hundred dollars and I'll say the night."

Dream's grip tightens upon his shoulders. His expression freezes in the reflection of the clock. Whatever Dream was expecting, hoping to hear, this was not it.

"Dream," says George, cheeks already flushed with the heat of his proposition.

A rush of cool air replaces Dream's hands atop his shoulders. The chill of it prickles at his skin. He hears Dream's rushed footsteps as he scrabbles to grab his phone from where it rests atop the table. Shaky fingers punch in his passcode and swipe through his apps. George watches him as he rapidly taps out unseen details before finishing with a triumphant press of his thumb. Dream looks up at him with a shy smile.

George feels more than hears the notification ping of his phone as it cuts through the air.

~ ~ ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like I've backed myself into a corner in which I have no choice but to write smut. Oopsie!  
> Your comments are very much appreciated even if it's keysmashes or <3333  
> Please let me know your thoughts and feelings pretty please I will actually cry.  
> How do you think it's gonna go with no kissing allowed?


End file.
